Sting

Nor did the semismile last. It faded as he tilted his head to one side and studied her, then said, “I’ve had an idea. But before I advance it, I want to know why the subject of your brother makes you twitchy and defensive.”

“It doesn’t.”

He merely looked at her with an unflinching, I-know-better gaze.

After an interminable length of time, she relented, ran her hand around the back of her neck, stretched it, released a long sigh. “There was nothing extraordinary about our family life. We were typical. Middle class. There was Mom, Dad, me the big sister, Josh the younger brother.”

“Did you watch out for him?”

“More or less. Like older siblings do.”

“Which was it? More or less?”

“If I must pick, I’d say more.”

“Why?”

She caught herself shifting her weight—twitching—and stopped. “Every family has a unique dynamic.”

“Those are words that don’t mean shit.”

“In our family they meant that I, as the older child, had an implied responsibility to protect my younger brother.” Actually her responsibility to safeguard Josh had been more than implied. Daily she’d been reminded of it, if not with a verbal admonishment then with sighs of disappointment or looks of reproof which were equally, if not even more, effective.

“To protect him from what?”

“Normal, everyday childhood hazards.”

“Hmm.”

With impatience, she added, “Like stepping on a rusty nail. Tripping down the stairs. Running with scissors.”

“Tiresome and thankless job for a kid,” he said, to which she didn’t respond. “Did your protective tendencies carry over into adulthood?”

“No. We both grew up.”

“Josh grew up to be a thief. What did your mom and dad think about that?”

“What did yours think about what you became?” she fired back.

“Actually my dad was tickled. I followed in his footsteps and had big shoes to fill. In our line of work, he was famous.”

“Oh. Then your upbringing was anything but typical.”

He shrugged. “It was commonplace to me. I was a kid, didn’t know any other kind of family life.”

She thought about that, then remembered his earlier reference to his mother. “Your mama taught you better than to molest a woman, but she was okay with the profession you chose?”

“No, she died wishing I’d taken another career path.”

“She’s deceased?”

“Both of them. Dad shot her, then put the forty-five to his own head and pulled the trigger.”

She couldn’t contain her shock. By contrast, his features remained unmoved and inscrutable.

Was he trying to stun her with cruel candor? Was he even telling the truth? There was no way of knowing. She reasoned that he could lie with nonchalance but could also reveal a terrible truth with matching indifference.